Outcasts
by Soledad
Summary: A glimpse into the younger years of Andrahar, Armsmaster of Dol Amroth. Warning: remember, he is a lover of men. Also, there are no known characters, with the exception of Prince Imrahil.


Outcasts

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Andrahar belongs to Isabeau of Greenlea and is used with her generous consent. The Eredrim were created in the Dol Amroth role-playing game. Mánion, his mother Brín and Master Melpomaen (not to be mistaken for Figwit) are my original characters.

**Rating:**  R – just to be on the safe side

**Series:** "Sons of Gondor" – these will be independent stories. Eventually.

**Archiving:** My own website and Edhellond. Everyone else, please ask first.

**Author's notes:**

Isabeau, the actual creator of Andrahar, has told me once (it must have been at least a year or more) that Andrahar was in a long-time relationship with a healer. In the meantime her stories took a different turn concerning the Armsmaster, but since we write the people of Dol Amroth in different ways – even the shared OCs – I decided for my little universe to keep Isabeau's original idea for my version of Andrahar.

Mánion, the healer has appearances in some of my other stories, like "Exercise of Vital Powers" or "Face of the Enemy". His mother is from the Eredrim, the original inhabitants of Dor-en-Ernil – the same folk which Lady Olwen, Prince Imrahil's mother belongs to, according to the Dol Amroth RPG. They are a secretive and rather suspicious people, with their own language and culture, but I decided that they had their own nobility that was a lot more advanced than the common folk.

This story starts about the same time as Isabeau's "Ultimatums" and is loosely based on its premises.  Andrahar's condition is caused by a grave injury he suffered in Imrahil's defence in that story. However, I've postponed the event a year and gave the injury more serious consequences. For visuals, Andrahar is "played" by Márton Csókás, as he looked in the XXX-movie.

"The Fragrant Garden" is actually an existing book about lovemaking – it is the Arabic version of the Kama Sutra.

So with all the background trivia being dealt with, we can go on with the actual story now. So far, this is a one-shot, but should I get inspired any time, I will add Mánion's adventures in Osgiliath.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**[Dol Amroth Castle, in the year 2986 of the Third Age]**

When the tidings came that young Prince Imrahil returned from her latest battle with an injured shoulder, people in Dol Amroth were chilled with fear. The only son and heir of their Lord could have been slain, the line of Princes that – according to family legend – reached back to the days of Elendil, but most certainly 'til the days of Eärnur, the last King of Gondor, could be broken, the consequences unimaginable. Thus no-one was surprised that Prince Adrahil flat out forbade his son to ride to war or put to the Sea again, ere he was properly wedded and had produced an heir himself.

Of course, this put the young Prince in an exceptionally foul mood, and whenever he came to the infirmary to visit his Haradric friend and bodyguard, healers and other visitors alike fled from his presence. Andrahar alone was able to make them tremble with fear – he _was_ a cold-eyed barbarian from Harad, after all, who could know what he would have done if provoked – but Imrahil had more than outdone his sworn brother in these days.

Despite their oaths, most healers did not like to be around Andrahar, weakened though as he was. They said, the young Prince's Armsmaster had eyes like a snake, and his heart, assuming he had one at all, was that of the snake, too – cold, black and treacherous. Thus even though they could not refuse to treat him, some of them secretly thought it would be better if he succumbed to his grave wounds and died, sparing everyone much pain and effort.

The only one who did not seem uncomfortable around him was Mánion, the son of Mistress Brín, one of the junior healers. Mánion seemed remarkably unaffected by Andrahar's temper tantrums, was able to force the gruff Armsmaster to swallow his medicine and eat his food and even had the cheek to throw out Prince Imrahil if he thought that his patient needed more rest. Thus little by little, the care of the difficult patient – and his no less difficult liege – was transferred to Mánion, while the other healers retreated from the whole affair with great relief.

Mánion accepted the task with a shrug and went on doing his duty as reliably as ever. Whether he was glad not to have the others looking over his shoulder all the time or interpreted the assignment as a challenge, was not easy to guess. But the arrangement worked out, for all parties involved, and that was what counted. Even Imrahil had grown used to the quiet presence of the young man, who rarely left the room, even during his visits. Usually, he worked in the back of the room, preparing bandages, sorting dried herbs or on some other task that needed to be done.

As he was slowly recovering, Andrahar kept watching the young healer from the corner of his eye. Mánion, some fifteen years his junior, had become a rather handsome young man in the recent years, having the rich brown hair and dark brown eyes of his mother but the tall and slender build of his father, most likely some Dúnadan noble, whose name no-one knew, save the Lady Finduilas perhaps. And she was dead.

Being the bastard son of a noble House while having a mother of lesser people, the way to become a Swan Knight was not open for Mánion. Not that he would want it, though. Nor did he want to become a lore-master or a scribe on the side of Master Melpomaen, his tutor of old. Healcraft and herbal lore were the things that had captured his interest from a very young age – small wonder, as his own mother was one of the most experienced healers in Dol Amroth – and thus he asked Master Salbhael(1), Prince Adrahil's herb master, to take him as an apprentice.

Yet unlike his elderly master, Mánion had no objections to follow the soldiers to the battlefield. Maybe it was his Dúnadan blood that made him less affected by the bloodshed and gore than it would do to the peaceful people of his mother. Whatever the reason might have been, he managed to become one of the Swan Knights, after all – not as a warrior, granted, but as their healer. He had been in every battle Imrahil had fought, and he had come to know Imrahil and Andrahar's bodies better than they did themselves.

He had been following them into battle for five year by now. When he had first came to the troops, no-one would trust their eyes. That lanky lad of a mere sixteen summers was supposed to be a _healer_? Many had expected him to break down and run back to his mother, weeping, in a week. But they had been taught to change their opinion about him, soon. The youngling was brave, eerily calm in the greatest of perils and understood his trade better than many an old healer. Had he been born in the right bed, he might have become the very pillar of any royal court.

_And_ the secret idol of many a young lady, surely, as he had grown to be quite comely at the age of twenty-one. The noble features of his unknown father were somewhat softened by the blood of Mistress Brín, and though he had almost full Dúnadan height, he was somewhat more finely boned than the nobles of Dom Amroth, his advantages being more speed and limberness than brutal strength. All in all, he was quite an eye-catcher wih his long limbs and easy smile.

Yet it seemed that he had no interest in female companionship, for he avoided the not-so-subtle advances of the maids and ladies-in-waiting (who were not always averse of a little adventure, as long as it did not turn too serious and nobody knew of it) with an impeccable friendliness. Nor did he seem to be keeping company with anyone save his fellow healers, who were all considerably older than he and treated him like a son. If he had any acquaintances at all, it had to happen with the utmost discretion.

Andrahar was reminded of Master Melpomaen at times when he watched the young healer – which, admittedly, he was doing quite recently in those last moons. Yet the elusive head scribe rarely left the library of Dol Amroth Castle, while Mánion was among the people all the time. How did he manage the same distance and discretion, and that at such a young age, was beyond Andrahar's comprehension. It had to be a special gift of the Eredrim. After all, Mistress Brín mastered it just as flawlessly.

And still, now that he was given special care in the Houses of Healing by the young healer, for the first time Andrahar thought to detect a barely noticeable change in Mánion's demeanour towards himself. He could not quite put his finger on it, but there most certainly was… something. Perhaps those thoughtful and just a little calculating glances the young healer cast him when believed himself unwatched. Perhaps the light touches that lingered just a moment too long when changing the bandages or washing his patient. Andrahar could not be certain. But there definitely was an interest from the younger man's side, and for his part, Andrahar was not averse, either. Relief of this sort has become rare and far in-between for him since coming to Dol Amroth, and Mánion was just the sort of partner he preferred – easy on the eye, supple yet strong, and, before all else, discreet.

Yet he knew that if he wanted this to go anywhere, he would have to make the first step. Mánion had been giving him subtle signs of interest, but now it was up to Andrahar to accept or reject. And he was _not_ planning to reject the best offer he had been given ever since Master Melpomaen and he had grown apart.

Thus he used his best chance to clear things between the two of them. The next time when Mánion was giving him a bed bath, he captured a slender hand that, once again, happened to linger just a moment too long near his groin and held it in his iron grip – hard enough to have Mánion's attention, but not so hard as to hurt him.

"For this," he said in a low voice, "other men would break your delicate bones, healer."

Mánion tilted his head to one side, without any sign of concern.

"Are _you_ going to break my bones, Master Andrahar?" he asked calmly. As always, his voice was soft and friendly.

"How can you be sure that I shall not?" replied Andrahar in a cold manner.

"I cannot," Mánion admitted. "Yet if you were averse, you would already have done so, I deem. As you have not, I dare to assume that we want the same thing."

"And that would be?" inquired Andrahar, laying his free hand on the young man's thigh. Mánion grinned.

"My guess would be a little comradery between two people of similar need."

"Do we have similar needs then?" asked Andrahar mockingly, giving the thigh a light squeeze. "Whatever made you believe _that_?" Mánion shivered under his touch.__

"I am perceptive," he said, brushing a gentle thumb over Andrahar's nipples; now it was the older man's turn to shiver. "As a healer, I have to be. And I have been watching you for years, Master Andrahar."

"Have you now?" Andrahar's voice was low, almost a growl. Mánion nodded.

"I have. I could not be certain, though, as you cover yourself very well. Thus I went to Master Melpomaen and asked him flat out, knowing that the two of you had worked together on that book about Harad for many years. I guessed he would know you better than anyone else, save Prince Imrahil."

At that, Andrahar's obsidian eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And what did the Elf say?"

"That this is something I have to find out myself," laughed Mánion.

Andrahar let out a small, relieved sigh. Not that he did not trust the head scribe – Melpomaen had always been discretion incarnate – but the small group of Eredrim who had come to Dol Amroth with the Lady Olwen had their own rules when among themselves. One of these rules being that they told each other things of which they would not speak to outsiders even if their lives would be at stake.

"Then indeed, you just have to find it out for yourself, I deem," the Armsmaster said, and taking hold on the younger man's dark locks, he pulled Mánion's head down and kissed the healer on the mouth. Hard.

"Not now!" Mánion warned, breaking his hold with surprising ease; apparently, he was stronger than Andrahar would have thought. "We might get caught, and that would be unfortunate. But I have night watch today; between my rounds, we can spend time together."

Andrahar looked down on his own body, to his unresponsive groin. "I fear I shall not be of much use yet," he said regretfully. Mánion laughed again.

"I know that – _I am_ the healer, remember? But there are ways of pleasure that we can still afford – until you recover and regain your full strength. I am willing to wait."

"But I cannot promise you aught for duration," warned Andrahar.

"And I am not asking," replied Mánion. "Nor am I pledging my everlasting love to you. I am bound to my work that leaves me little time for aught else but some casual company and relief – and you are bound to Prince Imrahil in more than one way as I see it. Still, we can give each other what we need – and we can be certain that it would be safe."

"True enough," agreed Andrahar, a little surprised by the practical wisdom of the young man. "I shall see you around midnight, then?"

"After my first round," promised Mánion, bending down for a quick kiss, and then he left.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the afternoon, Andrahar willed himself to sleep, wanting to have all his remaining strength available for Mánion's nightly visit. Fortunately, life as a soldier had taught him early on to fall asleep whenever he could or needed, regardless of the circumstances – and the injury left him weakened enough to sleep deeply and long, despite his excitement. Otherwise, the waiting would have driven him mad.

Imrahil visited him shortly after sunset, and they talked for an hour or two about many things of interest. Still, for the first time since they met, Andrahar could not wait for his lord and friend to be gone. He loved Imrahil, that would never change – but tonight he was about to get something that Imrahil would not – could not – give him, and he was looking forward to it. It had been too long since he had shared his bed with someone, and the thought of a warm body in his arms was strangely comforting – even though he would not be able to claim his new lover fully. Not tonight, He was still too weak, and Mánion took his healer's oaths too seriously to allow him any foolish experiments.

Not that he would risk his own recovery, either. Sure, there were potions that could make his dormant spear rise, but there would be consequences, in his present condition perhaps grave ones. Nay, 'twas better to wait; Mánion seemed willing to give this… this relationship a try, even in the long run, so there was no need to haste.

He lay awake, listening to the nightly noises of the infirmary. Finally, the halls became quiet, and when the light of the small oil lamp on his nightstand had dimmed to almost invisibility, the door opened noiselessly, and Mánion slipped in. He still wore the long linen robe and the loosely bound apron that healers preferred during night watch.

"Andrahar?" he asked in a low voice, as if not to wake the patient should he be sleeping.

"I am awake," replied Andrahar, just as quietly.

Mánion placed a chair in front of the door, so that they would be alerted in the unlikely case someone would come to look for the Armsmaster in the middle of the night. Then he put down his apron and came to sit on the edge of Andrahar's bed. For an awkward moment, thy both waited for the other to make the first move. Then Andrahar's hand slipped under the robe, breaching the younger man's thighs, sneaking straight towards that warmest, most secret place.

Mánion gave a ragged sigh and parted his thighs eagerly to give the calloused fingers of his new lover better access to his most private parts. He enjoyed the confident manner with which Andrahar handled him, yielding to the older, more experienced man's lead. It felt so good to let go, to let himself be pleasured by someone who very much knew what he was doing.

The yielding of the young man gave Andrahar a heady feeling. Mánion was surprisingly well-endowed, given his age and his rather slender frame, and grew in Andrahar's expert hand quickly. Yet when he reached around his young lover to breach his most intimate opening, Andrahar slowed down involuntarily.

"I am not your first lover, am I?" he asked, suddenly worried. In his present condition, he felt not up the challenge to break in a virgin. But Mánion simply shook his head, though a man with lesser eyesight than the Armsmaster possessed would not see it in the dark.

"Nay… when I understood that I might be a lover of men, I asked my mother for advice, and she told me to turn to Master Melpomaen. He has Elven blood, or so it is said, and Elves see these things differently. Thus I went to him and asked him to teach me in the ways of man-loving, and we had a pleasant time. You need not to worry; he taught me well."

"I doubt not," murmured Andrahar, remembering the seasons in which he had shared the bed of the elusive head scribe himself. "Yet it surprises me that Mistress Brín would know of his… interests. Master Melpomaen always struck me as a very private man."

"He is," Mánion agreed, "but mother and he had always been close. They both came with the Lady Olwen from Fortir, as you know; it was Master Melpomaen who taught my mother the arts of reading and writing when she was but an orphaned girl, raised in the house of Lady Olwen's father."

"Have you told your mother about me as well?" asked Andrahar. "That you wanted to lie with me?"

"Nay," replied Mánion. "Whatever I might think of you or want from you, it concerns her not. I am an adult now and walk my own paths. Had I not always felt a hidden bond between Master Melpomaen and yourself, I would not ask him, either."

"Good," said Andrahar gruffly. "See that you remain quiet. I have enough enemies at court as it is – many nobles envy me for my closeness with Imrahil. I want not to be exiled or executed for corrupting young men with my perverted Haradric ways."

"Worry not," murmured Mánion, kissing him lightly on the mouth. "No-one knows better than I do what it means being a stranger from what they consider a lesser people at court. Now, would you stop fretting? In an hour, I have to make my next round, and I would like to finish what we have begun before that."

"Then undress and lie down next to me," said Andrahar. "There is little more I can use on you right now but my hands, and you have to be close, even for that."

Mánion slipped out of his robe, draping it on the back of the chair, ready for putting on again when needed, and stretched out on Andrahar's uninjured side obediently. The Armsmaster let his own roughened hands roam the smooth, lithe body of the younger man appreciatively. Mánion was less muscled than the soldiers, of course, but he was not soft, either – riding out with the Swan Knights to every fight they were involved in took care for that. He had a few scars of his own, too – the enemy made no halt for the sake of an unarmed healer, and Mánion never hesitated to enter the battlefield when a wounded soldier needed his help, even with the fight still raging on.

Once or twice, Andrahar knew because he had seen it, the young healer had even dealt a quick and merciful death to the mortally wounded, when there was no way to bring them back from the battlefield, instead of leaving them to the torture of the Corsairs. Aye, Mánion was a strong man, both in body and spirit, and that was what had picked the Armsmaster's interest in the first place.

They kissed each other deeply, making up for long seasons of loneliness and restrained hunger. Mánion tasted a little of the healing herbs and tinctured he worked with, but that was not unpleasant; and beneath that was a faint taste that Andrahar found familiar – he knew it from the times as Melpomaen's lover. Maybe it came from the blood of the Eredrim they both shared. But all other tastes, superficial or elusively deep, were dominated by a unique one that Andrahar recognized as Mánion's own. It was a taste he found he liked. And he wanted more of it.

He kept kissing the younger man while grasping Mánion's needful flesh and bringing him to completion with hard, confident strokes. Then he asked Mánion to clean up the evidence and lie back next to him again. Recognizing the necessity, Mánion did as he was asked, and they lay quietly, facing each other, kissing and stroking, 'til it was time for the young healer to make his next round.

After his young lover left, Andrahar slumped back onto his pillows and fell asleep at once. For the first time in years, his sleep was peaceful and content.

**[Six weeks later]**

It took Andrahar longer than expected to recover from his injury, and he grumbled and bickered about it, as was his wont – or even more. Every healer felt terribly sorry for Mánion, who was put to night duty on a permanent basis, being the only one who could cope with the ill-tempered Armsmaster, and Mánion showed the proper long-suffering look expected from him, whenever the topic was brought up.

In truth, though, he spent most passionate hours in his charge's bed between his nightly rounds. As he slowly recovered, Andrahar's full ability to service a lover returned, and he taught Mánion things the younger man had never dreamt of. The Haradrim never did anything by halves; that included the arts of love as well. They were probably the only people who even wrote a book about it – a richly illustrated one titled _The Fragrant Garden_ – and the Armsmaster seemed to know that book by heart.

Still, they were both aware of the fact that their liaison was of temporary nature. Perceptive as he was, Mánion also knew the reason for it. And thus he decided to move on, shortly after Andrahar's full recovery.

"I am leaving tomorrow," he told his lover without preamble.

They were lying in sated laziness in bed in a little-known tavern in Gate Town, the easternmost and outermost district, considered the dirtiest and rowdiest neighbourhood in Dol Amroth, though still kept finer than the quarters in most other cities. The tavern had back rooms for just such encounters and was preferred by men like themselves. Customers came there hooded and cloaked, and no-one asked questions as long as the coin lasted.

"Where would you go?" asked Andrahar, resting an almost possessive hand on the younger man's hip.

"To Osgiliath," replied Mánion. "They need more healers, and as we have more enough in our Infirmary, I asked Prince Adrahil to allow me to go there."

Andrahar rose onto his elbow and looked at his lover's face closely.

"Are you trying to get away from me?" he asked. Mánion sighed.

"As long as I can," he answered soberly. "We both know that I could never capture your fire – it has been given to someone else already – and I wish not to be second choice. I deserve better."

"You do," Andrahar agreed," and I regret that I cannot give you more."

"You gave me more than I have hoped for," said Mánion, "and right now, this is enough. But if we stayed together, I would begin to want more, after a while, and that would make things… complicated between us. 'Tis best when I leave."

"Perhaps," Andrahar admitted after some time. "How long will you stay in Osgiliath?"

"A year perhaps… or more," replied Mánion. "I cannot say. I wish to learn more about the wounds caused by Orc-weapons and about the ways to heal them. Study the poisons they use and how to neutralize them. That will take time. Time I need to put that which we had to its right place."

"I see," Andrahar began to caress his lover absently. "I will miss you, though. Never had a lover that stayed with me this long, save Master Melpomaen. But that was different. I hoped we could make this last."

"We still might," said Mánion. "Later perhaps. Right now I am in danger to lose my heart to you, and that would be a mistake, as yours is no longer free to be given."

"How do you know?" asked Andrahar. "Am I so obvious?"

"Not for others, of that I am certain," shook his head Mánion. "Yet no-one knows you so intimately as I do. No-one watches you through the eyes of… of love," he admitted quietly, "but me. I see the light in your eyes when you look at him – you never look at _me_ that way. And that is why I need to leave. I need a great enough distance between us, so that we would not run into each other by accident. And I need time to think – to try to build myself a life without you, if I can."

"And if you cannot?" Andrahar knew first-hand that hearts often did not follow the sombre guidance of minds. Mánion shrugged.

"Then I might return to you… should you still be interested."

Andrahar sighed. He took the younger man's chin and turned Mánion's face towards himself.

"Mánion," he said, "you know I cannot change what I feel. No more than _you_ can, as a matter of fact. But I enjoyed our time together, and you will always be welcome in my life – and in my bed – should you choose to return. I love you as many ways as I can, and what little I can offer, is offered freely."

"I know," Mánion nodded, "and maybe one day it would be enough."

~ The End ~

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**End notes:**

(1) The name means "wise herb" in Sindarin and was donated by the most generous Erunyauve. I am useless with names, myself.


End file.
